The Bird and The Baby
by OmoMeowth
Summary: Two requests combined into one story. "Amaya" and "Murder."


It was a delicate little place: posh seats, soft lights, formal attire. It was even in the good part of downtown. That's how she knew it was fancy.

Amaya was sifting through the leather menu, looking for something she hadn't already tried. Her face was expressionless, but she was smiling inwardly. It was a treat for her to go to places as nice as the "Chez Catherine" and dine on real, Chartreux cuisine. She did go out more often than most people, but the price was often outrageous, and spending all of her hard earned money in one sitting – and often one dish – was a bit disheartening.

It wasn't enough to stop her, though. Each time she got paid, she stored a little money away, waiting until it was enough to cover one of those intimidating little slips of paper. And, in the mean time, she simply enjoyed other venues such as diners, restaurants, and cafes. She found it funny that she was pegged as the soft-spoken movie enthusiast; when in reality, she was the soft-spoken fine dining expert.

Sure, she loved movies as much as the next person, but she preferred to be out and about, finding new establishments to satisfy her unquenchable fetish! The only thing she liked more than new restaurants were new dishes – which, to a person of her experience, didn't always come hand in hand. She had tried so many different foods, spent so many thousands of dollars on bills, and scanned so many different menus, that she often found herself leaving once prospective opportunities disappointed.

She had even started to eat out less, finding that starving herself and occasionally forcing down homemade meals allowed her to save money quicker; getting her into nicer restaurants more often. However, even the finest of local cuisine was beginning to lose its appeal. She could feel her inward smile forming into an outward frown as she failed to find anything new on the menu.

She sighed and set the menu face down. She would order whatever the special was; it wasn't as if it mattered. Amaya thought about getting up and leaving the suddenly humble establishment, but she didn't have anywhere to go, nowhere better to spend her money.

Was it possible that she had literally been to every restaurant in Roseville? Was there _nothing _left for her to try in an even remotely considerable distance?

Well, there was one little thing she still wanted to try. But that was… different.

She knew it was stupid, maybe even a little insane; yet, for years the idea had been growing on her. She knew the consequences, and she had weighed the potential outcomes in her head countless times, on countless nights. But, _was it truly worth it_?

The waiter arrived. She picked up the menu and pointed at the small section entitled "Weekly Special." He quickly got the message, having dealt with her several times before, and left to inform the cooks of the order.

Her toes were curling with annoyance and her feet were beginning to tap the plush carpet below. She needed to stop thinking about it. It was wrong. It was insane. It was completely deranged! She couldn't allow herself to sink to that level of… depravity.

She wondered if she was alone in her temptation. She couldn't be. With all the people on Earth, there had to be at least a small collection of like minded individuals. A group of curious people who wanted to pass beyond that threshold of social dictation. And maybe there were others; similar people who wanted a different end result, but in the end, _wished for the same thing._

It was never easy asking that regrettable question of morality versus pleasure. Determining your place in the world: as either the compliant or the free. But everyone had to do it, didn't they? Or was she truly the only one?

The way her mouth watered at the thought. The way her heart jumped at the mere mention. She whispered the word and tasted its bitterness on her lips. Maybe she _was _wrong. Maybe she was just insane, completely deranged, and truly, utterly, **depraved**.

But none of that mattered! None of it could matter anymore! She gave a slight, imperceptible smile as a mysterious pleasure washed over her. Where once guilt had grinded into her flesh and put her in her place, there had grown a shield of passion and will.

Her food arrived and she nodded gratefully to the waiter.

"Will that be all, ma'am?"

She looked at him for a minute, feeling almost cocky. She was tempted to say something. To compliment the young man on his rather devilish good looks. Normally such a thing would be far too blunt for a shy girl like her, but she felt… oddly invincible. In the end, though, she decided to let the Mike look-alike be on his way. She couldn't think of anything clever or smooth enough to validate leaving her shell.

She was proud that she had considered flirting. Talking to Sue was chore enough, and she had known her for years, but even the slightest desire to open up to a stranger's face – even if a familiar one – was a victory in her book.

She did her best to enjoy the expensive food in front of her. It bored her, but she was in too good a mood to be truly bothered. She was humming along quietly with the catchy jazz radiating through the room, tapping along on the plush carpet below.

She had trouble sleeping that night. Words and places were racing through her mind, and she struggled to make sense of them all. She had an opportunity coming… A chance to make her wildest dreams come true. But that same question was posed: was it worth it?

Doing it could easily be the end of her, in more ways than one. But what would _not _doing it mean? Every night for years the thought had plagued her. Sometimes it would only rear its head for a slight moment, but other nights it would simply haunt her, not letting her sleep or think of anything else… And it was only getting worse.

It was embarrassing to think about, but there had even been a recent day where she had touched herself thinking about it. It didn't turn her on - not at all. But the interest was so consuming and in need of such relief that she couldn't control herself any longer. The resulting orgasm allowed her several nights of restful sleeping – as well as guilty crying.

But masturbation wasn't going to work again, and she didn't know how much longer she could force her desires to the back of her mind. She got out of bed and walked across the room. She stared out of her window into the desolate street and thought back to something that had happened years ago, something she still wasn't sure if she regretted or not…

Clouds looming on the horizon, the town soaked in rain water, and the sun nowhere to be found. She was walking home from school, quietly admiring the dismal scene. She had never considered it before… Well, maybe in passing. But never anything more than that. Back then, she was a normal girl. Quiet, but normal. No signs of mental depravity and no demented inclinations.

But when she saw that feathery corpse lying lifeless on the side of the road, she was struck with an odd sensation.

She stared down at it, unable to look away. She knew she was supposed to pity the poor creature, but she didn't. She didn't regret its misfortunate, nor care if it had suffered.

Amaya made sure no one was watching her when she poked it. The very feeling of death sent shivers up her spine and made her smile – inwardly, of course.

She thought the fascination was innocent, but the urges were getting more intense, more deranged, and before she could stop herself she was carrying it into a nearby bush, concealing herself. She was cradling it, pressing it to her nose, and even for a second she licked it. She had to act fast, before anyone caught her.

And suddenly, like a prisoner finding the key to her bindings, she was struck with morbid inspiration. She carefully placed the bird corpse on the ground and examined it. There were guts spilling out from the side of its stomach. Brown, messy tubes, twisting into each other with grotesque lack of life, staining the grass below.

She pulled the greasy innards out of the way and inserted her finger into the hole. She ripped the birds stomach open, devoid of remorse, feeling the flesh separate, exposing a pool of dark brown vitals to the world.

She searched around its insides, trying to find a specific organ… With everything the same color, it was difficult, but eventually she found what she was looking for: the heart. She tore it out and crammed it into her mouth. The taste was meaty and vile. The wretchedness gave her goosebumps and the pungency made her want to vomit. But she swallowed it, unable to stop herself.

And so she sat there, for several minutes, her mind lost somewhere in morel oblivion.

She poked her head outside of the bush and looked around. Nobody was there. She quickly made her way home, never mentioning the event again.

Despite her best efforts, Amaya found herself reflecting on the events of that monumental day many times, and she could never come up with an answer for why she acted the way she had. She couldn't find an answer for why she had felt no pity or remorse. Why she had went for the heart. Why she had went for anything at all! …And worst of all, why the urge never subsided, but instead increased over the years and morphed into something even more loathsome and grotesque.

She was no longer staring out the window. Amaya had pulled a box out from beneath her bed and was sifting through it. She pulled out a large, blue feather and rubbed it. It was a keepsake from that prophetic day. It had somehow managed to get wedged in the large zipper of her backpack when she placed it by the corpse, and it didn't fall off for the entire walk home. When she sat down on her bed, she saw it and quickly stashed it away, never able to part with it.

Amaya sighed and set the feather back in the box. She knew what she was supposed to do, what she was obligated to do. Yet, she also knew that it wasn't really a choice. There was this fire deep down, and it was spreading throughout her entire body. It had steadily been crawling up her intestines for years, making its way to her throat and finally her mouth. It was ready to spill out and consume her.

Her thoughts didn't slow down, nor did they become any easier to understand; however, exhaustion from other sleepless nights caught up with her and she eventually drifted off into uneventful slumber. Upon waking, she felt surprisingly lively. She figured it was just the excitement. After all, she had waited a long time for a chance to relive that dark moment years prior.

She went downstairs and waved to her parents, making it seem as though everything were normal. Such a charade wasn't difficult at all for a timid mute like her. If anything, it was natural.

She didn't eat breakfast, but then again, she never ate breakfast with them. She sat down and pretended to watch the television, but in reality, watched the clock.

Only a few minutes passed before she got up and left for work. Typically, work was a hassle, one she only dealt with to fund her expensive dining tastes, but for once she was actually glad to go. Amaya was particularly adept at managing her thoughts, all in spite of how chaotic they could sometimes be, but the ensuing hours were going to be tense ones. She knew trying to escape the nervousness and anticipation was impossible, but a little distraction couldn't hurt.

The day went by relatively quick, which was a blessing and a curse at the same time. She couldn't help but think back and wonder if things could have been different. She wondered if self-restraint years ago would have changed anything. If maybe ignoring her unnatural urges and leaving the corpse to rot would have made her less of a social abstraction.

No. Of course not. It was a matter of biology. Or, as the sensualists referred to it: fate. If self-restraint could have made a difference, it wouldn't have been needed.

When Amaya's shift ended, she lingered around for a few minutes, taking in her surroundings. She had worked there for years, but had never really absorbed it all, and the moment she learned to appreciate the humble building, she had to leave it and never come back. She was standing outside on the sidewalk, the sun setting, people casting curious glances in her direction. She said goodbye to the most civilized thing in the world: work.

When she was finished lamenting, she headed straight to Mike's house, still in her work clothing. She felt sick to her stomach. Would she be able to go through with it? Did she really want to? The closer she got, the worse the feelings became.

By the time she arrived at his door, she gave up trying to make sense of the situation. Trying to dictate anything but the short term was irrational. She let her body go into autopilot. The feelings were still there, but at least she didn't feel responsible for them. She didn't _actively _feel them.

She was greeted by a familiar face.

"Hey, Amaya!"

She blushed and gave him a shy wave.

"Come on inside." She obeyed and entered the house.

Even in light of the atrocities she was about to commit, she couldn't help but feel a bit bashful in his presence. She had always had a crush on Mike, even after liking him had gone out of style.

"Hey, mom! Amaya's here!"

She had always been captivated by his looks. The way his big, green eyes probed gently around the room, curiously, sympathetically, and unconditionally. The way the corners of his lips would curl up whenever he gave off one of his splendid smiles. How he seemed to ooze self-confidence, but still managed to seem like a cute, sheepish, little button. In a way, they were similar, but Amaya always felt like he was a more complete version of her; like she was a hallowed out shell formed from the remnants of his beauty.

She entered the room. "Good evening, sweety."

But it wasn't just his physical beauty that she found attractive, but his caring personality. She had seen him put up with _Lucy_ for years, and he was always such a good sport. She wanted someone like him; someone that could appreciate her despite her flaws. Someone that could understand her even when she didn't speak…

"Okay, well, Chris is in his room sleeping right now, but he'll probably be up a little later tonight, when he gets hungry."

He inspired confidence in her. He made her want to change in ways she had never considered before. She was infatuated with him and had waited years for an opportunity to try and take things to the next level. But between her shyness, Lucy, and Sandy, it didn't seem like she would ever have an opportunity.

"There's food in the refrigerator; you can help yourself. The DVD player is hooked up, so you can watch what you want. And, uh, you can pretty much do what you want, just please don't have any guests over. I'd prefer it were just you." His mother smiled.

Amaya nodded.

"So, is everything in order then?" She looked around the room, checking to see if anybody had any questions or qualms. "Okay, perfect! I guess we'll be heading out then."

Amaya nodded again.

"Alright, well, try to have fun… Just not too much fun." She teased. "Thanks again for doing this."

"Yeah, we really appreciate it! I called you because I felt like you were the best person for the job."

The unexpected compliment struck Amaya surprisingly deep.

"He is lying. He only called you because he secretly likes you."

Both Amaya and Mike blushed at Haley's sudden interference.

"What?!" Mike burst out, surprised.

"Haley, please." Their mother sighed. "But, yes, Amaya, we really appreciate you doing this. If you need anything, just give me a call. There is a number on the fridge."

Amaya swallowed and nodded. Haley threw a smirk her way, mostly basking in the embarrassment of her brother, but seeing something peculiar in how hard Amaya was blushing.

"Heh, see ya." Mike smiled meekly at her and followed his mother out of the house.

"Bye!" Haley sang, the last to leave.

From behind her, Amaya heard the door lock. She was standing alone, in Mike's house, cheeks still burning with embarrassment. She could feel her heart beating from the awkwardness of the situation. She wondered if maybe Haley was hinting at something. If maybe she knew something about her brother that Amaya didn't…

No, that was insane. Mike liked Sandy. No amount of idealism or hope could ever change that simple, depressing fact.

Amaya looked around the small room and wondered what to do. She was still undecided on whether or not she was going to carry out her plan, and giving up her freewill to passion to go on autopilot didn't help. Passion appeared to be undecided too.

Then, she had a strange idea. She felt like a prisoner being given the key to her cuffs again, except this time her inspiration was far less morbid. She bit down on her bottom lip for a second, wondering if she could allow herself such a treat. It was an invasion of privacy, but at the same time, did it matter?

Even _considering_ her original plan was a crime far worse than allowing her recent compulsion to come to fruition ten thousand times over. It was nothing in comparison! Yet, she still couldn't shake the feeling some ethereal body was judging her. Like all of heaven was looking down on her with shame.

She felt like she was desecrating some unspoken bond between her and Mike, as if doing this would render them forever separate… Then again, they were doomed to be separate no matter what she did. And, if she went along with her original plan, then she wouldn't ever have another chance to do something so… personally satisfying.

She swallowed, embarrassed at herself for even having such a perverse desire.

Amaya let some time pass, making sure that Mike and his family didn't forget something and end up walking in on her. When she was confident they wouldn't be making a return, she shut the television off, glanced out the front window, and then headed upstairs.

Mike's room was tidy, modest, and… Well, bland. It didn't particularly stand out, but somehow she liked him more for it. It made him look more reasonable and stable; two things she had always respected – and envied.

After taking in her surroundings, she tentatively crossed the room and stood in front of his dresser. It was a pale shade of black, and didn't stand out in many ways – the only thing that caught her eye was the framed picture of Sandy that sat on top. Amaya couldn't help but frown with jealously and mild contempt. She had seen Sandy once before, but she hadn't remembered her being so beautiful.

The picture also stood out for Sandy's unique pose. It seemed a bit sexual for something you would just lay out in plain site; but, then again, Sandy was a model. Poses like that were probably commonplace for her.

It wasn't really even that sexual anyway, just… erotic? The picture obviously drew attention to her mostly perfect chest… and to that small area where her thighs came together.

Ugh! Amaya turned it around. She didn't want to look at it anymore. She didn't want to look at her – clearly superior – competition.

She tried to forget about the white mirage in the picture as she opened up the top drawer and found just what she had been looking for. The drawer was filled with his undergarments.

Her mind was instantly cleared of any thoughts of Sandy as she focused in on Mike's boxer-shorts. She swallowed and bit her bottom lip again. Was she really going to do this?

She reached in and pulled out a pair that looked nice. They were dark blue, covered in randomly placed lines – both horizontal and vertical -, each line a different thickness and color. The end result was a very generic looking pair of boxers, but it didn't bother her. She fondled the thin, cotton material with conserved excitement.

She brought them up to her nose and sniffed them, feeling ridiculous the whole time. They smelled like fabric softener.

She blushed at her own ignorance. Of course they did.

She placed them down, feeling a wave of disappointment wash over her. She had heard that sometimes people got turned on by smelling another's underwear, and it was something she had always wanted to try, but never got the chance too. She could have done it with Sue's, but it never felt right because Sue was another girl. She wanted to try it with a boy – particularly Mike.

She had another idea.

Without wasting anytime she left the room and started hunting around the house. Passing Chris's room made her stop in her tracks. She looked in the eerily quiet space, fleeting light pouring through the cracks of blinds opposite his cradle. Not yet…

She eventually found a small door next to a bookcase in the living room. She opened it up and inside was a washing machine and a dryer. Yes, she had found it: the laundry room.

Amaya walked in and searched the wall for a light switch. She flicked it on and looked around the small space. It took no time at all for her to spot a small white basket on the floor, toward the back of the room. It was filled to the top with unwashed clothing. She swallowed with nervousness and excitement.

She got on her knees and searched the through mass of towels and clothing for a pair of his underwear, but it wasn't looking good. Mike wasn't known for wearing a lot of clothing, and, coincidentally, she couldn't remember the last time she had seen him in anything except his scarf. She felt depression washing over her as she worried her final wish was not going to be granted.

Then, she saw them. At the bottom of the basket, next to a pair of black trousers, she found a pair of boxers. She pulled them out and inspected them. They were similar to the other pair, both were dark blue and both had stripes, but these were a slightly lighter shade, and the stripes were all white and symmetrical.

She bit her lower lip and pressed the worn clothing to her nose. She inhaled deeply. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't particularly good either. She felt like she was smelling sweat and dirt. The second sniff was better, and she picked up a trace of something that seemed… almost indescribable. Good, but vague. The more she inhaled the smell of Mike's privates, the more she enjoyed it. Soon, the smell of sweat and dirt was replaced with the smell of arousal and personality, and she felt herself beginning to find the poignant scent slightly arousing.

She thought in depth about Mike as she continued to violate his underwear. She pictured him wearing the boxers, his genitals rubbing against the material for hours, ingraining his unique scent into them. She thought about him doing sexual things – to himself and to her.

More inspiration.

She stood up and looked at the boxers. With little hesitation, she slipped her small feet into the material and pulled them on. They were a little baggy on her, but Mike was a petite guy, so they weren't falling off. The feeling of Mike radiated all over her and left a tingling sensation on her flesh. She rubbed the material of the boxers and pressed them against her body. Her hands became less and less inhibited by the second, and soon she was grinding the underwear against her groin.

She could feel her heart beginning to beat harder and harder as she struggled for air. The feeling of Mike's underwear against her privates was incredible. It was far more satisfying then sniffing them. She felt her knees wobble, so she sat down on the cement floor. She didn't stop rubbing herself for a second. Her entire crotch area was burning with orgasmic pleasure.

The boxers were starting to grow moist with her juices; this only turned her on more. It made her feel like he was with her, touching her, penetrating her, **loving her**. In only a few more moments, she would climax, leaving the last of her mark in his underwear, the last of her mark on the 'civilized' world.

She couldn't help but cry out. Her cheeks were burning red from the captivating pleasure that surged through her body like a bolt of lightning and lingered like fire in a forest. A single tear ran down her cheek. It was more than just the jarring sensation of orgasm; it was regret. It would be her last time.

When the orgasm was over, she drifted back on the cement and rested for a moment, her lower body numb and wet. She asked herself why things had to be the way they were. Why she had to be so strange and malformed. Why she had to have such malicious passion.

She sat up and looked down at the sodden boxers. She didn't want it to happen like that. She didn't want it to be his remnants preserved in some fabric. She wanted _him_. She wanted the freedom to pursue him. The ability to tell him. The ability to love him like a normal girl. Like Sandy, Daisy, or even Lucy. But instead, she was doomed to be a pedophile. Doomed to be a rapist. A maniac, a murder, a criminal. She was a beast of burden.

And she wondered: wasn't everybody? Maybe they were like her. Maybe everyone was a slave to their own self. Maybe the only difference was the passion itself. When it means liberation, social constructs collapse. The once sweet palm of humane love becomes a powerful fist of morel desecration.

She stood up and slipped the boxers off. She dried her eyes and placed them in the basket. A cold, remorseless winter chilled her to the bone. Regrets left her as raw, Satanic determination overcame her. The heart was calling her.

Like a puppet, she made her way out of the laundry room and up the stairs. She entered Chris' room and approached his cradle. She looked down at the sleeping angel, but she didn't see life, she only saw a heart, a slowly dying heart.

She gently lifted the corpse up, trying not to disturb its slumber. Chris stirred, but remained asleep; it seemed almost fitting that he be asleep. That he be taken by life and by passion to his grave with no control, with no way to resist, without even knowing it was happening.

She brought him downstairs, her thoughts ambiguous and diseased. She entered the kitchen and approached the stove. The light from the kitchen woke Chris up. He looked around, curious, his eyes beginning to water.

She opened the oven and turned it on. Chris fit inside perfect. He was crying, but she silenced him by gently closing the door. His cries were still audible, but they were muffled by the metal encasement. Now, the neighbors would be spared the sound of his misery.

Seconds turned to minutes, cries turned to screams. She could hear as his flesh was cooked and life was taken from him. She could hear was the heart became a true slave to the fires of passion.

The screams went on and on, a pale whisper in the silence of the house. It was a sound she could never forget. It was the sound of pure death. The sound of a stomach being torn open. The sound of a heart being chewed up and swallowed. The sound of a baby born dying - living a lifeless life, dying a meaningless death!

But to her, that death was not meaningless. To her, that death meant life.

Then all was silent.

She opened the oven door and a blast of smoke shot out. She could smell him, the brother of the one she loved being cooked alive. She grabbed some oven-mits and pulled him out. His body was black from the smoke, his eyes were melted to nothingness, and there was not a speck of fur left on him. His flesh was rotting and dehydrated. His face was one of pure horror.

She placed him on the kitchen table and looked around. She grabbed the biggest knife she could find and she shoved it into his chest. It took more work than she had expected to cut him open down the middle, so she cut his stomach. When she succeeded in opening him up, she discovered his innards were still steaming from the intense heat. She grabbed an oven-mit and pushed her way into the mass of organs.

She yanked out strands of cooked intestines and several things that looked vaguely like organs. She piled them on the table and kept searching. Finally, she found a small, brown ball. Yes, finally.

She set it to the side and stared. Her mind was blank. She thought nothing of the corpse. She felt no pity or remorse. As far as she was concerned, there was no difference between the bird and the baby. They were one in the same.

It was time. She grabbed the heart and lifted it to her mouth. It smelled like ashes and death; it sent shivers up her spine. She bit into the singed organ and almost vomited out of disgust. Boiling juices burned her tongue and a flavor worse than anything she could have imagined filled her mouth.

She took another bite, and then another. Her tongue was in horrible pain and the taste made her want to pass out, but she stomached the poison, each bite making her feel a bit more content. Finally, the heart ceased to exist as one object, and had become many swallowed pieces of one life.

She had finally done it. She had finally gotten her wish and validated her passion. She had spit in the face of society, laughed in the face of law, and crushed any idea of decency that could possibly possess her. She had eaten a feline's heart.

Amaya sat there for a few more moments and considered her options. She could try and make it look as though she wasn't guilty. Her original plan has been to make it look like someone had broken in the house and attacked her, but there was no way that would work. She considered burning the house down, but they would find the baby cut open and devoid of a heart. There was no way she could fake it good enough.

But a more pressing question was: did she even want to be free? Did she want to roam the world eternally hunting for more pleasure, eternally looking to satisfy a desire that was inherently perpetual? It was such a shallow, regretful existence.

She stood up and left the kitchen.

In the bathroom medicine cabinet she found a plethora of orange bottles filled with pills. There was one in particular that grabbed her attention: prescription sleeping pills for Mike's mother. It was perfect. She opened the bottle up and swallowed as many of the small, white tablets as she could as quickly as possible.

That was it, her fate had been sealed. In a few minutes, she would be set free of life. She would never have to commit another atrocity against civilization or God again. She headed downstairs, wanting to look at Chris one more time, wanting to see the damage she had done.

When she entered the kitchen, she found him untouched, in the same spot, lying in the same, pitiful way. His body was decrepit and falling to pieces. His insides were sitting on the table and had clearly been tampered with.

She thought about Mike and started to cry. She regretted the pain he would undoubtedly feel. His family, too. It was not fair for them to lose their son, their brother, and their fellow loved one. They had done nothing to deserve such a horrid fate, yet Amaya had brought it upon them anyway.

She regretted her own life. She regretted her flesh. She regretted her weakness and her dementia! Her passions had been a curse to the world. They had taken away an innocent girl – one that could have led an amazing, wonderful life. She didn't choose to kill him. She didn't choose to kill herself. She was being possessed. She was being possessed by that very force which made the world unbearable. She was tormented by the inevitable force that brings all things to life, to death, and back again. She was plagued by the power that brought depression, misery, regret, jealously, and greed to the universe. She was plagued by the most ironic freedom.

But, in the end, there was one thing she could not regret. There was one thing she could not pity. There was one thing she could share no tears for. They were freer than any living being would be. Devoid of responsibility, absent of pain, and no regrets to be found. They were the guilty.

She felt no pity for the dead.


End file.
